


Plan B

by pentaceratopsian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Short, its about the repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaceratopsian/pseuds/pentaceratopsian
Summary: Any other john. Getting his money’s worth. Dean’s practically performing a public service, knowing full well there would be no wad of cash waiting for him after this.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	Plan B

Dean walks out of the brothel laughing the hardest he’s laughed in months and he looks over at Cas, wearing the expression of someone who just learned what a donkey show is, and he laughs even harder. He tells him how great this night is, and Cas replies, “so what now?”

“Now we go with plan b,” says Dean, slinging an arm around his shoulder and pulling him toward the impala. The way he leans into the Angel is just enough to conceal the way he trembles at the thought of what he’s about to do. He thinks he needs just a little more alcohol to get through this moment, to push all the way through. He wants Cas to be his bad drunk idea he can laugh off in the morning. He  _needs_ Cas to be his bad drunk idea he can laugh off in the morning.

He pulls into the parking lot of a convenience store and leaves Cas in the car, asks him to stay and half expects him to fly off as soon as the door is shut. He almost shows his hand as his macho cool-guy swaggering strut is overtaken by nervous speed, but it’s okay, he thinks. You’d have to know him to know he was off his game. Nobody here knows him. No one ever will. 

He picks out the biggest box of cheap beer in the case and speed-swaggers to the cashier. The register and the poor bastard stuck behind it are encased in the special cage you only see at the seediest quickee marts and his visage in the little window is haloed by a ring of condom boxes. Dean looks straight ahead until the transaction is complete and then he power struts to the Impala.

Castiel is still in the passenger’s seat, head tilted and eyes squinted. He had ample opportunity to fly away, but he’d stayed.

Dean falters. He swallows with desert-dry throat and flashes him a cheesy grin before getting back in the car. 

He pulls off somewhere near the rundown house they’re operating out of and cracks a can open, prompting Cas to do the same. He cringes as the watery brew hits his tongue. His taste is typically more discerning, but tonight is not a night for taste. Tonight is happening fast just like every other moment leading into this apocalypse and the man— well, not really  man — next to him will be dead tomorrow. This will do this job. This will have to do.

He laughs again as Cas hesitantly takes a sip and scrunches his face up. 

Dean drinks some more. Cas drinks a little more. Dean drinks another can. Cas nurses the same can. Dean thinks the world is getting softer and more unstable and he feels his words slip out of his mouth more uneasily and then he knows it’s time. 

He watches cas’s eyes go wide, deer in headlights, just as it has in the brothel when he reaches for his belt buckle. 

“What are you doing?!”

“It’s time for plan b,” Dean says with a smile, and he can’t keep looking Cas in the eyes after that or the whole thing will fall apart. Especially as Cas doesn’t stop him. As he shifts his hips to help him pull his pants down, as his legs spread just that little bit wider when Dean pulls his cock out and finds it already half hard.

It’s nothing special, Dean thinks. This is just like any number of times he met some johns or another in their crappy car or their crappy motel room or their crappy dark alley and tugged their dicks to full mast. Same firm, yet supple, warm and reddened skin. Same twisting and rubbing and pressure he’d use on himself. Same surprised gasp, same breathy groan. Same slick clear precum coming up too quickly. Same breath that hitches as he slides his thumb under the head. Same uncertainty what to do with his hands, balled up in fists at his sides as Dean touches him. 

As long as Dean doesn’t look at Cas’s face, doesn’t  _want_ to look into his eyes, doesn’t want to notice the way he’s flushed, the way his lips are parted, the way he clearly wants this, it’s the exact same thing. 

Dean shuts his eyes and takes his cock into his mouth. He hears Cas’s hands reflexively fling themselves away and slap the window and the seat. Feels his intriguingly thick and powerful leg muscles tense beneath him. Hears him moan properly.

Business as usual. Business as usual.

Cas almost ruins it when he says Dean’s name. None of the johns ever got the luxury of knowing that detail. By now, they should be pulling his hair and fucking his throat. Making him gag. Taking their money’s worth. Dean freezes for a second with his hand gripped loosely around the base and his lips halfway down the shaft. He slowly drags his head up, up and away, and then Cas gently puts his hand in Dean’s hair and it’s okay again. He dives back down with mechanical, alcohol-dulled precision.

He gets into a rhythm, same as he always did. He lets his lips and his tongue drag, applies some suction, and plays the part of someone savoring the cock in their mouth. His hand moves from the shaft to the balls. He hums a small satisfied note as Cas groans and strains and the hand in his hair tightens ever so slightly.

Any other john. Getting his money’s worth. Dean’s practically performing a public service, knowing full well there would be no wad of cash waiting for him after this. His own neglected boner was simply a biproduct of the method acting he was doing.

Any other john. Not taking advantage of him out of unusual courtesy, out of fucked up professionalism. Not forcing him to do it when he swallows Cas’s cock and makes the critical mistake of looking up at him while he does it.

Any other john. Not beautiful.

Their eyes meet, and the person Dean sees above him isn’t a person at all. Isn’t a john funding his and (most importantly) his little brother’s next meal. Isn’t a tactic. Isn’t using him. Isn’t demanding this. Is looking at him with unbearable reverence.

No, not beautiful. _Divine_.

Dean can’t look.

Cas’s breath begins to hitch and the hand in his hair becomes a vice and he lets out a gutteral cry and Dean tastes hot minerals and doesn’t even think twice before swallowing it all down. Disposing of the evidence. Disposing of the decision. Completing the transaction. 

He comes up for air, panting, and Cas looks  _wrecked_ . He’s panting just as hard, eyes wide open, hand dropping from Dean’s hair to the back of his neck. He looks like he wants something. Like he  needs something. He brings the hand on his neck to Dean’s cheek, runs a finger along his bottom lip, and struggles to say something. His touch is like cold fire. It’s too much to take. 

“You’re welcome,” whispers Dean, and then he pulls away, leaving them both coldand alone with an ocean between them on the Impala’s bench seat. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in a fast burst of inspiration for my SO’s birthday. Happy birthday to them, to Dean Winchester, and a sexy sexy Aquarius season to us all!
> 
> This might become part one of a series of short little vignettes about Cas and Dean’s relationship over the years. I’ve at least got a companion plotted out to this if nothing else. Stay tuned I guess lol.


End file.
